


The Care and Feeding of Cloud Strife, Child SOLDIER

by AimeeLouWrites



Series: Divine Comedy [4]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Child Soldiers, Cloud Strife Needs a Hug, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Genesis Rhapsodos Does What Genesis Rhapsodos Wants, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Sephiroth Being Sephiroth, Teenagers Getting Into Shit, Time Travel, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Whump, Wing Grooming, well kind of time travel makes that a bit weird to classify
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26260144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeLouWrites/pseuds/AimeeLouWrites
Summary: Oneshots within the continuity ofSeventh Circle, Ninth Sphere1) While Cloud panics about putting Zack in danger just by existing near him, Genesis has a profound realization2) Cloud is accidentally injured while sparring with Zack and is, well,Cloudabout it, much to everyone's distress3) Cloud hates February for understandable reasons and drinks through Angeal’s alcohol stash one particularly terrible year4) [Art] The growing dad-ness of Angeal from his teens to his twenties, Genesis and Angeal as SOLDIER Seconds in Wutai, and Cloud being adorable whether he likes it or not.5) Angeal is 17, grappling with the realities of taking human life, when Cloud offers his help and lets something horrifying slip in the process6) To Sephiroth, looking after Cloud is like weapon maintenance. Sharpening is easy—the boy takes to battle like a bird to the sky—but polishing, especially of the gifts he would prefer to keep hidden forever, is another matter entirely
Relationships: Angeal Hewley & Cloud Strife, Angeal Hewley & Genesis Rhapsodos, Genesis Rhapsodos & Cloud Strife, Sephiroth & Cloud Strife, Zack Fair & Cloud Strife
Series: Divine Comedy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804864
Comments: 129
Kudos: 357





	1. Cloud Panics and Genesis Has a Realization

Genesis has a bit of a headache.

Well, more than a bit, really. Today marked the beginning of classes for the newest cohort of Third Class SOLDIERs, which  _ somehow _ included a class of his own. Angeal tricked him, through what Genesis can only assume was some kind of witchcraft, into teaching a seminar on field triage and materia healing. Which would have been fine, except that Genesis is...Genesis.

The average age of a new Third Class is a measly seventeen and in _this_ cohort there’s a positively _bouncy_ fourteen-year-old that makes Genesis feel like a creaky old man left to shrivel up in the sun like a raisin. It bears repeating that Genesis _is not good with children._ He’s not even good with Cloud, who doesn’t act his age and never has. And Angeal is _fully aware of this fact,_ but decided to trick him into teaching anyway.

Which really makes this Angeal’s fault, if you think about it.

So now he’s got a migraine and, yes, he might have tossed a Fira or two at some baby Thirds. He has no doubt that Angeal is going to kick his door down and make his headache much,  _ much  _ worse once he finds out, even though this is  _ all his fault. _

With that in mind, Genesis makes the prudent decision and retreats to his apartment several hours earlier than normal, determined to nurse his aching temples with some scotch and a well-earned nap before he has to deal with SOLDIER’s resident Mama Bear Hewley.

He barely has a chance to shed his coat and hang it in his closet before he hears the front door open and shut. He groans, low and irritated, in the back of his throat. That has to be Angeal. How did he find out so damn  _ quickly? _ Genesis braces himself for the shouting to start, crossing his arms over his chest and staring mutinously toward the door.

Silence.

He blinks, brows drawing together. If that wasn’t Angeal, then who…?

There’s a noise from the front room. It’s soft, hard to hear even with his enhancements, but unmistakable: a wounded hitch of breath drawn through gritted teeth. A sound of pain. Genesis stares at his bedroom door, frozen in surprise. 

That soft hitch of breath precedes a tidal wave of anguished noise, escalating rapidly from strangled whimpers to something that sits uncomfortably between a wail and a scream. His breath leaves him in a painful rush because  _ he knows who is making those sounds. _ He’s never heard anything like it before—never thought he would  _ ever _ hear something like that—but he  _ knows. _ He knows it like he knows the feeling of a bruise.

He unfreezes, scrambling forward and wrenching the bedroom door open with enough force to deform the hinges. He hopes ( _ dearly hopes _ ) that he’s wrong, because the kind of things that would have to happen to make Cloud scream like  _ that… _

He’s not wrong. Cloud is sprawled out over the tile right in front of the door like he fell there, though Genesis can’t see any major injuries. His oversized Third Class fatigues look pristine. He’s crying so hard he can barely breathe.

Genesis, unlike Angeal, has been entrusted with Cloud’s lowest moments before. He’s seen the boy when his body is in tatters and the pain is too much to speak through. He’s seen him slit the throats of dying soldiers in mercy kills. He’s seen him try to carry wounded comrades to safety, only to have them die slung over his back when he couldn’t get there in time. He’s seen his eyes grow blank and distant and dead. He’s seen him shut the whole world out with a mask made of unbreakable steel.

But Genesis has never,  _ ever,  _ seen him cry.

“Cloud!?”

He hurries forward, heels clicking sharply across the tile. Cloud doesn’t react at all, not until Genesis drops to his knees and pulls him into his arms. The tiny blond makes the most pathetic, wounded little sound Genesis has ever heard as he slumps into the man’s torso, head lolling. He still can’t see any blood, but Cloud  _ must  _ be injured somehow to make a sound like that.

“Where are you hurt?” he demands, staring down into slit-pupiled eyes blurred by a film of tears. He’s not terribly surprised when Cloud just sobs instead of answering, though the lack of response isn’t exactly helpful. He needs to know what’s wrong before he can fix it. 

Fortunately he still has his bracer on, complete with Sense and Cure, and he puts them to good use even as he continues talking. “What happened? Isn’t Sephiroth away on a mission?” To his disbelief, Sense turns up nothing. No injuries at all. As far as the materia is concerned, Cloud is as healthy as a Chocobo.

Cloud spares a breath to giggle hysterically at the question. Genesis blanches, a sharp stab of something like fear making his gut twist unpleasantly. He knows what to do when Cloud staggers into the apartment dripping blood and holding his bones in place. He has no fucking clue what to do with  _ this. _

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to Cloud as he watches the boy hyperventilate in his arms, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused, glowing like lanterns. Even on a good day it’s difficult to get Cloud to talk, and today is certainly not a good day. He’ll have to settle for providing what little comfort he can scrounge up. His lips press into a worried line. “Alright, up we go,” he says, getting his other arm beneath Cloud’s thighs and standing to his feet.

Goddess, the boy is so light. He wonders suddenly,  _ is he eating enough? _ It’s the kind of thing Angeal would say  _ (the kind of thing Genesis would mock _ ), but it seems so very pressing when he’s actually feeling Cloud’s insubstantial weight in his own arms. 

Genesis hesitates in front of the dark leather couch for a moment. What little he’s learned about soothing hysterical children suggests that he should lay the boy down, perhaps kneel by his head and start trying to calm him down. But then again, he’s not Angeal. He’s not good at gently drawing people out of their distress. Even if he were, Cloud has never been so profoundly shattered like this before. The fact that he even let Genesis pick him up without raising a ruckus speaks volumes.

Genesis blows out a slow breath as he considers his options, acutely aware of the twelve-year-old shaking and sobbing in his arms like his heart is breaking into a million pieces.  _ Well, in for a Gil, I suppose. _

He turns and sits on the couch, settling into the plush corner where he’ll be most comfortable. He has a feeling he’ll be staying in one position for a good long while. Tentative, anticipating angry resistance at any moment, he tucks Cloud into his chest and wraps his arms securely around the boy’s shuddering torso. 

And Cloud just... _ lets _ him, laying unresisting atop Genesis as he keens and draws in ragged, shallow breaths. That pliancy, far more than the weeping itself, fills Genesis with cold alarm. He feels incredibly out of his depth.

Cloud’s pulse races, loud as a drum to Genesis’s enhanced ears. He tucks his chin snugly over the boy’s untamable hair, frowning thoughtfully as he feels his shirt begin to soak through with tears. What can he do? He’s not good with words in the way Angeal is. The words he prefers are—

_ Ah. _ Inspiration strikes. He begins to speak, keeping his voice to a slow, soothing cadence.

_ “When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end _

_ The goddess descends from the sky _

_ Wings of light and dark spread afar _

_ She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting...” _

Somehow, mercifully, it works. As he recites, smoothing one hand slowly up and down Cloud’s back in time with his voice, the boy’s anguished keening subsides into helpless crying and then into quiet, hiccuping breaths. Genesis watches the clock, paying half an ear to Cloud’s heartbeat until it finally calms into the rhythm of sleep.

He falls silent.

His shirt is cold and wet against his shoulder and upper chest. One of his legs is starting to fall asleep, but he can’t bring himself to move it. The minute hand continues its slow crawl as he watches, lost in thought. It took over an  _ hour  _ for Cloud to cry himself to sleep. Briefly, he shuts his eyes. What could possibly have happened for  _ Cloud  _ of all people to sustain such an intense emotional outburst for so long?

“What happened, darling?” he murmurs, holding Cloud a little tighter in his arms. “Who did this to you? Poor boy, you just never get a break, do you?”

Genesis has never had a younger brother. He’s never had a nephew. He’s certainly never had a son, and never will. In truth, he’s never wanted them either. It was always Angeal’s impulse to be a caregiver, not his. Genesis is not a nurturing force; he is  _ fire. _ A refining fire, perhaps, but a fire meant to refine can just as easily destroy. He is well aware of his own nature.

But here in this moment, steeped in the silence of his apartment with Cloud sleeping across his chest like the child he adamantly refuses to be, Genesis wonders if any of it matters. Who he is, who he considers himself, who Cloud is to him in a technical sense—what does it matter when Genesis is holding his boy ( _ his boy _ ) after a moment of such profound vulnerability? When Cloud trusted him enough to allow it?

Cloud isn’t his little brother, or nephew, or son, but what does it matter when Genesis loves him so much it feels like his heart might burst in his chest?

_ Loves.  _ He  _ loves  _ him.

It’s a quiet, gentle realization—fitting, to be had in the silence after a storm such as this. There’s no pain to it at all.

“Poor boy,” he repeats, tilting his head a little to press his lips to Cloud’s sweat-soaked hair. Warmth and painful empathy mingle in his chest, constricting his lungs. “My poor, darling boy. What am I ever going to do with you?”

* * *

Genesis sits quietly for another twenty minutes or so, basking in the gentle atmosphere of Cloud’s trust and his own realization until he hears someone unlocking his front door. With Sephiroth away and Cloud in his arms, it can only be Angeal. He cringes a little and hopes his childhood best friend is here to find Cloud, not to harangue him for throwing fire at the Thirds.

The door has barely opened when Angeal starts yelling: “Genesis, answer your PHS! Cloud is—”

As happy as Genesis is not to be the subject of Angeal’s shouting, he also has no desire to let the man wake his sleeping charge. “Right here, so  _ hush. _ You’re going to wake him,” he scolds, barely above a murmur. 

Angeal’s agitated steps stutter to a halt as the door closes behind him. His eyes go immediately to the blonde lump wrapped up in Genesis’s embrace. He inhales sharply. “I—Gen?” he asks, bewildered.

Genesis almost laughs. He doesn’t exactly know much more than Angeal at this point, despite letting Cloud cry all over him. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly with the slightest shake of his head. “I don’t know, Angeal. He just came in, an hour and a half ago. I don't think he knew I was home.” He is reasonably certain of that, at least, considering Cloud had collapsed right in front of the door and proceeded to wail his lungs out without even attempting to call for him.

“He was....’upset’ is the nicest way to put it, but given that this is Cloud there’s no other way to describe it than ‘utterly hysterical.’ I thought he was seriously injured at first. He was crying and hyperventilating. I couldn’t get a single word out of him.”

Angeal’s expression is one of baffled concern. He closes the remaining distance between them, dropping to a knee beside the couch. With one hand, he reaches out and carefully pushes Cloud’s damp bangs away from his face. Genesis can’t see at this angle, but he can guess well enough what Angeal finds: flushed cheeks, a ruddy nose, puffy eyes, perhaps even glittering tears lingering in pale blond eyelashes.

“Oh,” Angeal breathes, eyes softening. After a moment of searching Cloud’s sleeping face, he asks without looking up, “and he...let you? Comfort him?”

Genesis suppresses an inelegant snort. Cloud is notorious for resisting all help and comfort. Even when he was six he had to be on death’s door or nearly unconscious before he stopped fighting them. “I was as surprised as you are, believe me. Did something happen while he was with you?”

Angeal shakes his head, shamelessly taking advantage of Cloud’s unconsciousness to gently caress his face. “No,” he murmurs, almost sad. “Or at least, I didn’t see it. One minute we were heading to the gym, the next he was running like his life depended on it.”

Genesis pauses, considering that for a moment. Cloud’s fight-or-flight instincts, in his experience, are really more...well,  _ fight _ instincts. He hasn’t the slightest idea what would make Cloud bolt like that, but it can’t be anything good. He hums, resting his chin back on Cloud’s hair. “And I don’t suppose he would tell us if we asked.”

Angeal just laughs at the idea and doesn’t bother addressing it directly. Instead, he moves his hand to Cloud’s lower back and rubs a slow circle. “It’s a bit late for a nap,” he says, “but I don’t want to wake him.”

“No,” Genesis agrees. “Let’s put him in his room and let him sleep it off.”

“Not Sephiroth’s apartment,” Angeal says.

Genesis rolls his eyes a little. “No, of course not. Maybe if I thought he’d sleep until tomorrow, but I meant his room in  _ your _ apartment. Besides, The Bastard isn’t here to be in a snit about letting Cloud out of his sight.”

“Mmm, good.”

With a bit of stabilization from Angeal, Genesis gets up off the couch without waking Cloud. The boy sleeps on, head shifted to the crook of Genesis’s neck as the Commander balances him on one hip.

“He’s too light,” Genesis murmurs as they cross the hall to Angeal’s apartment. Even supporting his weight with just one arm, the other resting lightly on Cloud’s back, it takes barely any strength to carry him.

“Never thought I’d hear  _ you  _ say that,” Angeal responds with humor.

Genesis sniffs haughtily. “Yes, well, I will admit that letting him get snot all over me for an hour may have shifted a few of my priorities.”

“Ah, of course. Just a few shifted priorities.”

“And perhaps a realization or two,” Genesis adds breezily. 

_ I love him so much that it hurts. _

For all that Genesis is a thespian, he could never bring himself to say it out loud, not even to his dearest and longest friend. Angeal is well aware of the delicious irony: Genesis far prefers to keep the most important things unspoken.

“Perhaps,” Angeal echoes, a knowing smile on his face.

_ Insufferable lug,  _ thinks Genesis as his best friend holds open the door to Cloud’s room. He pauses for a moment to allow Angeal to unlace and remove Cloud’s boots. With a bit of careful maneuvering, they manage to get his harness and belts off too.

Angeal draws the covers on the bed back, then reaches out and helps as Genesis leans down and carefully settles Cloud onto the mattress. The boy rouses just a little as Angeal tucks the covers up under his chin, eyes cracking open a sliver. His pupils are round again.

“Cloud?” Genesis asks, but the boy just curls up on his side and lets his eyes slide shut.

_ “Later,” _ Angeal mouths, jerking his chin toward the door. Genesis nods in agreement and together they leave to let him sleep. Perhaps he will feel more inclined to speak once he wakes up.

Genesis snorts audibly at the thought.  _ Not likely. _


	2. A Sparring Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud is seriously injured and Zack is understandably freaked, especially when his tiny thirteen-year-old friend is disturbingly nonchalant about it

If there’s one thing that Zack is most proud of, it's his ability to make Cloud laugh. 

He doesn't succeed as often as he would like—Cloud is just a grim person in general—but when he does... _oh._ It's like watching the sun breaking through the clouds, pun very much intended. His friend's entire face ( _his entire person, really_ ) just...lights up. It's absolutely breathtaking to see, and Zack is the only one who can pull it off. Sure, Cloud will smirk at Genesis or let his expression soften around Angeal, but Zack is the only one who can make him _laugh._

He's laughing now, as they chase each other around the Train Graveyard in what is nominally a spar but is really two teenagers playing super-soldier tag with swords. Like this, when it's just the two of them, Cloud's demeanor lightens even more. He seems almost, _almost_ like a normal thirteen-year-old, crowing taunts at Zack and taking stupid risks just to see if he can pull them off.

At one point Zack swings his broadsword like a baseball bat and Cloud uses it to launch himself straight through the upper window of a warehouse, which is _awesome as hell._ It’s a good thing neither Angeal nor Genesis are there though. They’d probably ground them for “being so reckless,” even though they totally shouldn’t be able to ground Third Class SOLDIERs. Unfortunately, the one time Zack had tried arguing the point he’d gotten an extra three days tacked onto his grounding and that had been that.

“Catch me if you can!” Cloud taunts, pounding across a rusting catwalk at the top of the warehouse with Zack hot on his heels. Reddish-brown flakes shake free of the metal and drift in fluttering arcs to the ground far below.

“Ha!” Zack crows. “You asked for it!” He cheats a little and casts Haste on himself ( _hey, Cloudy is_ fast, _okay?_ ), closing the distance and leaping up to bring his sword down in an arc for maximum force. To Zack’s surprise, Cloud turns on a dime and stops to take the full brunt of the attack, a wolfish grin fixed across his face. Zack barely has a split second to worry about accidentally hurting his friend before their blades collide. His fears prove unfounded—Cloud does a neat trick with his sword, angling it and flicking his wrist _just so_ to deflect Zack’s blade to the side.

What Zack should have been worried about was the catwalk. 

With his skillful deflection, most of the momentum from Zack’s strike was redirected instead of going straight down into Cloud and the metal beneath him. 

_Most_ —not all. 

The catwalk breaks in two with an ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal. Zack watches Cloud’s eyes widen and feels his own do the same. There’s no time to think. Cloud falls, his head striking a glancing blow on the broken metal as he plummets, though Zack won’t realize that until much later. The older teen shouts, reaches out a hand, but Cloud is already gone. A moment later, two things hit the concrete far below: a broadsword and a small human body.

 _“Shit!”_ Zack exclaims, scrambling to the edge of the torn metal lattice. Cloud lies prone on the ground, his sword next to him. He’s not moving. A glistening red pool grows by his arm as Zack stares. _“Cloud!”_

His better sense kicks in. He quickly holsters his sword on his back and leaps over the break in the catwalk, fishing his PHS out of his pocket as he runs for the safest, quickest route to the ground. If he had the enhancements of a First he could leap straight down, no problem, but he’s still a Third. He doesn’t dare risk putting himself out of commission when Cloud needs his help.

He punches speed dial with shaking fingers and brings the PHS up to his ear. “Come on, come on,” he mutters, leaping onto a lower catwalk. The force of his landing makes it groan ominously, but it holds. The line connects with a crackle of static and he gasps out _“Angeal!”_

“Zack?” His mentor’s voice is sharp, picking up immediately on his panic. “What’s wrong?”

“Cloud’s hurt! Like, really hurt! I—“ he glances over the catwalk as he runs. Cloud is still in exactly the same position “—he’s not moving!”

“Where are you?”

Zack grunts, delayed from answering for a moment as he leaps another level lower. “Train graveyard,” he says, pausing to answer before he makes one more leap to ground level. “West side warehouse, I think, I don’t know, we were running all over—“

“Stay calm,” says Angeal, static crackling over the speakers as he...Zack doesn’t know, gets up and runs maybe? “We’re on our way.”

Zack makes the final jump, dissipating his momentum with a graceless but effective forward roll. His sword complains at the treatment, but that’s hardly his concern right now. “Kay,” he gasps, running faster than he’s ever run before. “Hurry.”

“We’re hurrying, I promise. What happened?”

“The-the highest catwalk broke. He fell, I think he hit his head…” Zack drops to his knees, wide-eyed as he takes his friend in. He draws in a shaking breath, firmly reminding himself that he’s a Third Class SOLDIER. He _is_ capable of handling this. “Oh, he’s…his arm is broken.” The bone in his right upper arm is poking out of his skin, steadily leaking blood onto the concrete. “I don’t...I shouldn’t move him, right?” He thinks there might be blood pooling below his friend’s blond head too.

Suddenly Genesis is on the line. “Very good Zack, you don’t want to move him in case something happened to his spine,” the Commander says calmly. “Do you have a Sense on you?”

“N-no…”

“Okay, that’s fine. Can you tell me if Cloud is breathing?”

“Yes,” says Zack, relieved he can say one positive thing at least. “His breathing sounds fine, I think? Maybe a little shallow.”

“Do you know how to take a pulse? Neck or wrist, it doesn’t matter, but don’t touch his chest right now.”

“I think I can,” he says, yanking one glove off and pressing two fingers to the junction between Cloud’s neck and jaw. It takes a few tries, but he gets it. “Uh, am I supposed to be counting something?”

“Just tell me how it feels to you. Fast, slow, steady, uneven?”

“Uh...s-steady.”

“Good. That’s very good. He’s probably not in immediate danger. Can you tell me about his injuries?”

Zack opens his mouth to respond, but Cloud chooses that exact moment to groan quietly and swim back into consciousness. “Cloud,” he breathes, sagging a little in relief as he catches a flash of blue-green iris.

“Zack, put me on speaker,” Genesis commands as Cloud mumbles _“wha…?”_

Obediently, he punches the speaker button and sets the PHS between himself and Cloud, well away from the growing blood puddle. “Okay, you’re on speaker.”

 _“Cloud Strife, don’t you dare move!”_ Genesis barks immediately.

Cloud freezes, his unbroken arm hovering a half-inch above the concrete from where he’d been lifting it. “What?” he says, clearer this time. Then his eyes narrow a bit and he frowns. “Oh. Shit. Ow.”

“Yes, _ow._ Stay exactly where you are. We’re coming to you.”

Cloud stares up at the ceiling, taking a long moment to gather his thoughts. “No, it’s...not that bad.”

Zack gapes. “What do you _mean_ not that bad,” he asks with a tinge of hysteria. “Your bone is currently _poking out of your arm!”_

“I know, hold on, let me—” he reaches his good hand over and takes ahold of his arm right below the protruding bone.

“Don’t—” says Zack in alarm, while Genesis says “Cloud don’t you _dare—!”_

With a quick, smooth yank, Cloud pulls the bone into the correct alignment. Beads of cold sweat break out on his brow, but otherwise his expression remains one of mild irritation. A moment later his bracer lights up as he directs a concentrated Curaga into the arm. Zack catches a brief glimpse of the bone fusing together before new muscle and skin seals over it.

“Holy shit,” Zack whimpers, nauseous. He remembers Genesis’s seminar on field triage perfectly well, but how can anyone, much less a thirteen-year-old with a head injury, _do that to themselves?_

 _“Cloud!”_ Genesis growls in reprimand. In the background, Angeal asks faintly _“what did he do?”_

“‘S not that bad,” Cloud insists mulishly. Another wave of healing light washes over him, this time directed all over his body. “See? I’m f—”

He makes to sit up, but Angeal and Genesis are both clearly aware of his tendencies. “Zack, pin him!” Angeal commands, his voice still a little distant. Zack instantly does as commanded, taking gentle but firm hold of Cloud’s shoulders and holding him to the ground.

“Zack,” Cloud says in exasperation.

“No,” he says firmly. _“No._ You hit your head _twice,_ Cloud. I think you landed while you were already unconscious. We’re gonna stay right where we are until they get here.”

Cloud mutters something about overreactions, but subsides. After a minute or two, his eyes slide shut and he starts doing some meditative breathing. Zack unconsciously follows him, coming down from his adrenaline high as he blows out slow, even breaths.

From the way Cloud cracks an eye open and looks at him, he doesn’t think that’s a coincidence.

The Firsts arrive about ten minutes after Zack called them, which makes him wonder what exactly they did to get there so quickly and also if he would be allowed to do it too.

“You’re overreacting,” Cloud informs them as Zack scrambles to get out of the way of Genesis and his Sense materia.

 _“I_ will be the judge of that, young man,” Genesis says severely, evaluating the results of his casting with an expert eye. Angeal checks Zack over briefly and the teenager is too preoccupied watching Cloud to squirm in place like he usually would. “What is the last thing you remember?”

Cloud scowls at him in a way that Zack recognizes as his ‘ _I was hoping you wouldn’t ask because now I either need to lie or admit something I don’t want to’_ scowl. “...landing on the catwalk.”

“Zack, how long was that before he fell?”

“Uh...about four minutes I think?”

Genesis levels a _very_ unimpressed look at Cloud. “Four minutes of memory loss. You sustained one, possibly two Grade 3 concussions, little fool. How is your vision right now?”

In the most grudging possible voice, Cloud admits “...spotty.”

Angeal groans tiredly, but Genesis just nods like he expected it. The Crimson Commander carefully gets his hand beneath Cloud’s head and casts a Cure of his own. “How about now?”

“Better,” Cloud mutters.

“Alright, stand up.”

“It would have been fine.”

“Uh-huh. Walk in a straight line for me.”

Cloud walks forward, but even Zack can see the way he wobbles unsteadily. 

“Yes, just fine,” Genesis drawls, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder and laying the other just under the curve of his skull. Another Cure flashes over his blond spikes. “Try again.”

This time, Cloud walks forward with his usual grace, turning sharply and coming back after about fifteen paces. 

A more disgruntled expression Zack has never seen.

“And _that”_ says Angeal pointedly, “is why we didn’t want you to get up and start walking without Gen checking you over first.” His arms are crossed over his chest. Zack feels himself cringing instinctively, despite the fact that The Look isn’t being aimed at him. He doesn’t know how Cloud manages to keep from withering beneath its intensity.

“Now,” says Genesis with a smile that makes Zack’s spine go ramrod-straight, “who would like to tell me what, _exactly,_ you two were doing that got you into this situation in the first place?”

They end up grounded for two weeks.


	3. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud hates February for understandable reasons and drinks through Angeal’s alcohol stash one particularly terrible year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Aerith chapter got pushed back because I felt the need to Hurt Myself with this one. Fair warning, it's pretty OUCH.

Cloud hates February—it is, after all, the month in which he woke to this nightmare nine long years ago. Sephiroth knows this perfectly well and makes a point of ‘celebrating’ it every year, like some kind of twisted birthday. And always, his ‘gift’ comes in the form of a battle. Cloud hates  _ that _ mostly because he can’t help but enjoy the rare opportunity to shed everything and lose himself in an all-out, no-holds-barred fight.

Maybe it’s a bad sign, that getting the snot beaten out of him is the surest way to make him feel calm and relaxed.

It was hard enough to get through February in Wutai, but now they’re back in Midgar and there are so many things he can’t pretend to ignore any longer. Time is slipping through his fumbling fingers. His greatest failures stare him in the face every day. The old scars on his soul are ripped open and bleeding already, but February is like salt in the wounds. He burns under the weight of it all.

This time, even fighting isn’t enough to quiet the pain. When his ‘gift’ has ended and he’s watching Sephiroth leave, the relief he so desperately needed evaporates like fog in the sun. He burns inside and out, blood streaking down his skin and dripping to the training room floor. When he racks his sword, he pauses to rub the tiniest red smear of Sephiroth’s blood from the tip—evidence of his improvement, but not enough. Never enough.

He should go to Genesis. Off the top of his head, he knows he has a severely dislocated shoulder, several broken ribs, a possible concussion, and eleven very deep, very precise lacerations in the youthful skin that once displayed his scars like unwanted trophies.

Like marks of ownership.

_ (“Mine,” Sephiroth breathed, eyes alight as Masamune bit deep into the exact point where a scar had once sat in the center of Cloud’s chest. Beads of crimson blood dripped from a cut at his hairline, glancing off his silver eyelashes before rolling down his cheek. It was the first blood Cloud had managed to draw since their fights in the original timeline, and all it had done was excite him. “Mine, mine,  _ **_mine, M I N E_ ** _.”)  _

He should go to Genesis, but he can’t stand the thought of baring his weakness right now, so he braces his shoulder against a doorframe and sloppily pops it back into place himself. Spots crowd out his vision for a moment until he blinks them away. Angry and hurting and careless, he casts a Curaga over himself and lets the chips fall where they may. If he has to break and re-set something later, so be it.

He wants…he wants something,  _ anything, _ to make the burning in his chest ebb.

He wants to be at Seventh Heaven with a bottle of SOLDIER-strength vodka in his hand after closing, when Tifa turns down the lights and presses a careful, reassuring kiss to his temple before she silently retreats upstairs to watch over the kids until he’s pulled himself together again. But he can’t have that. He can’t have that ever again.

...maybe he just wants vodka right now.

He checks the time—a few minutes after noon. If he goes to Angeal’s apartment now, he’ll have several hours alone before the man goes home. He would have plenty of time to work through a few bottles from Angeal’s stash. 

It’s a terrible idea. At best, he’s going to be in a considerable amount of trouble for attempting to get smashed at the not-even-close-to-legal age of eleven. At worst, it could spawn some kind of well-intentioned intervention.

He thinks of the uncomfortable conversations and thinly-veiled babysitting that he’ll have to endure, and...and still, he just can’t bring himself to  _ care. _

He has enough presence of mind to swap out his ruined, bloody uniform for a clean one, but that’s it. Meteor could have been descending and he wouldn’t have noticed as he slunk into Angeal’s apartment. The liquor cabinet is locked, for some reason, but it’s laughably easy to snap the padlock open. He takes an armful of the strongest proofs he can find and retreats to the narrow balcony, sticking his legs between the bars and sitting with his feet dangling over the sheer, several-dozen story drop.

He pops open the first bottle, downing it carelessly, and the burn in his throat matches the burn in his eyes.

* * *

Angeal knows something is wrong the moment he steps into his apartment. He frowns a little, glancing around, but nothing seems off until his eyes catch on the liquor cabinet and it’s broken lock.

Baffled, he walks over and removes the destroyed padlock, inspecting it. It was clearly forced open with a SOLDIER’s brute strength. He hadn’t bought it to actually deter someone with enhancements—it was more of a pointed message to Genesis about stealing alcohol—but why would Gen bother with breaking it off instead of getting the key out of Angeal’s room?

He flips open his PHS and speed-dials Genesis, who  _ should _ be on his way to a Loveless performance at the moment. His friend picks up on the second ring.

“I hope you have a good reason to call,” Genesis sniffs. “It’s about to start.”

Angeal runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, why did you break into my liquor cabinet?”

There’s a long pause. “I...didn’t. What are you on about, Angeal?”

“You didn’t? Then why was the lock broken off?”

“Well, it wasn’t  _ me. _ I don’t know why Sephiroth would, but it certainly can’t have been...Cloud…”

Angeal’s stomach drops. “Hold on,” he says, jogging through the apartment with the PHS to his ear, searching every room. A shock of bright gold hair catches his eye as he passes the sliding door to the balcony.  _ “Shit,” _ he breathes. “Gen, I’ll call you back.”

“What—”

He snaps the PHS closed and eases the door open.

* * *

Cloud is  _ thoroughly _ sloshed, which is nice because he was worried he wouldn’t be able to manage it anymore, given the sheer amount of mako pumped into him as a toddler. If he was a bottle of mako, his proof would be, like...40. Or something. Actually, no, that doesn’t make any sense. 

He lets the thought vanish into the soupy fog of his inebriation.

Thankfully, his insubstantial eleven-year-old mass is working in his favor at the moment. It probably helps that most of Angeal’s alcohol is strong enough to blind a non-enhanced person.

His forehead is pressed against the metal railing in front of him, the final bottle of fuckton-proof vodka cradled in his lap, half-empty. His stupid SOLDIER metabolism is already eating away at his buzz, slowly stabilizing his blurry vision.  _ Not yet,  _ he thinks, and raises the bottle back to his lips.

An enormous hand catches his wrist and then the bottle is gently pried from his fingers. He frowns. “Noo,” he complains, trying to reach for his escaping alcohol. He’s not very successful, considering his wrist is still trapped.

Another hand ( _ there’s too many; he’s losing track) _ carefully guides his chin up and to the side. He thinks he might be looking at a vaguely Angeal-shaped blur, which is...bad? He feels like that’s bad.

“Hey, little man,” the blur whispers. A thumb brushes across his sticky cheek, just below his eye. It feels nice and cold. He thinks he should be offended for some reason. “What are you doing?”

The blur sounds a lot like Angeal, so it probably is. There’s something off about his tone though. Cloud can’t make out his expression, which isn’t helping. He chases after his shifting, liquid thoughts, determined to come to some kind of conclusion. It’s important. It feels important.

He sounds like...like Tifa sometimes did. Like his whole heart is breaking. Cloud doesn’t like that. It was bad enough when Tifa sounded like that. This, somehow, is worse.

“Hate February,” he blurts out before he can really think about it. “Hate it, hate it,  _ hate it.” _

“Yeah? Why’s that?” 

Something warm is running down his face and oh,  _ right, _ that’s right, he’s crying. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t the best idea after all. He certainly wasn’t a weepy drunk back home, but that was before The Asshole of Wutai stuffed him into a child’s body, complete with a child’s lack of emotional control.

At least he’s not having tantrums anymore. The toddler years were very embarrassing.

...wait a second, didn’t Angeal ask him something about February?

“Hate it,” he slurs again, sniffing. “I w-want to go...back.”

“Back? Back where? To Wutai?”

Cloud blanches. “Nnnno. Wutai’s...bad. Not ‘s bad as here but...I wanna go...back to Edge.” He frowns a little. Is it  _ back, _ if it’s in the future? Or is it back to the past that would be the future. Or maybe sideways? Where are they, anyway? Stupid time travel. He’s not drunk enough to think about this.

“Ooookay...so you want to go somewhere that’s back or forward or sideways, huh? What’s in, uh,  _ Edge?” _

He almost says Tifa, but an alarm bell is ringing loudly in the back of his still-very-drunk-but-sobering-quickly skull. He can’t tell Angeal. That’s bad. No details. “Doesn’t...matter,” he manages past the lump in his throat. More stupid, warm tears stream down his face. He takes in a shuddering breath and nearly chokes on it. “‘S all dead. Everything’s dead.”

No Tifa, no kids, no AVALANCHE. Just him and Sephiroth and these stupid,  _ idiotic _ SOLDIERs that he can’t protect no matter how hard he tries. He’s not a hero like Zack. He’s just a stupid screwup of a mistake that was never meant to be like this in the first place.

He really,  _ really _ wants the last of that vodka.

“Okay, alright, I think what you need right now is some water and a nap, hmm? Come on, let's go inside.” The hands leave his face and grab him under the arms instead, carefully working his legs out from between the bars before lifting him like a child.

...fuck, he  _ is _ a child! Stupid godsdamned Sephiroth and his possessive god-complex bullshit, turning him into a tiny not-human demigod child thing. With fucking  _ wings. _ Can’t forget about the wings, no matter how smashed he is. He’d really like to forget about them though, or maybe tear them out at the base, but Sephiroth won’t let him and he  _ always knows. _

Cloud decides to protest the lack of alcohol by slumping into Angeal’s shoulder like a ragdoll. It probably would have been more effective if he was full-grown. Like this, he weighs about as much as that sweet, sweet bottle of half-drunk alcohol forgotten out on the balcony.

His life is bullshit.

* * *

Angeal tries not to panic too much as he carries Cloud back inside. The boy is slumped against him like the most dejected, woeful little drunken chocobo in the world. Angeal doesn’t know how to handle this. He has  _ no idea _ how to handle this. He’s seen some of the ( _ adult _ ) SOLDIERs turn to drinking to cope with PTSD, though it’s a fairly dangerous and uncommon coping mechanism for people with SOLDIER strength. He knows how to handle those types, but what do you do when your  _ eleven-year-old _ does the same thing?

Gaia, every time he thinks he’s seen the worst of what Cloud has to deal with, something new blindsides him.

He goes to set Cloud down on the kitchen counter, then immediately thinks better of it and puts him in a chair instead—less distance to fall if the very drunk little preteen topples over. Cloud folds over the table and mutters something about the injustice of the world. Even on the verge of panic, Angeal can’t help but roll his eyes a little at that as he goes to fill up two glasses of water.

“Come on, drink,” he says, setting both down in front of the pathetic-looking child. “It will help with the headache that I  _ know _ you have right now.” Honestly, that amount of alcohol would have given  _ him _ a killer migraine, and he has something like three times more body mass than Cloud.

Cloud whines, sounding far more like a normal eleven-year-old than Angeal has ever heard before, and slaps one hand up onto the table before sliding it over to bump the glasses, all without raising his forehead from the wood. He turns his face to the side, squinting blearily, and moves to try and drink the water without actually sitting up.

_ “No,” _ says Angeal, grabbing the back of Cloud’s shirt and pulling him upright. “Don’t even think about it. You’d choke.”

Cloud grumbles something unintelligible, then lifts the glass to his lips and downs the entire thing in one long go. Angeal raises one eyebrow, then the other as Cloud also chugs the second glass. The boy pushes the empty glasses away and lets his forehead thunk back down onto the table.

Angeal sighs deeply. “No, don’t fall asleep there. Come on, let's go to your room.”

Cloud stands, pushing off the table, and almost immediately topples sideways. Angeal lunges to catch him with a muffled curse. He barely manages to keep the boy from cracking his head on the back of the chair.

Cloud leans awkwardly into his side and lets his weight drop entirely. “I,” he declares, raising one finger as he stares up in the general direction of Angeal’s face, “am  _ drunk.” _

“Yeah,” Angeal agrees, huffing a laugh even though he kind of wants to cry as he looks down into hazy, fever-bright blue cat’s eyes, “I know, little man. Come on.”

Cloud doesn’t seem particularly inclined to try and walk properly, so Angeal just scoops him up again and makes his way to the guest room that has functionally become Cloud’s room. He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. He has a plan now, even if it might be a shitty plan: let Cloud sleep his inebriation off, call Sephiroth and let him know what happened, and then have a good long talk with Cloud when he wakes up.

And it  _ is  _ a shitty plan. He knows it’s a shitty plan because he knows Cloud, and what Cloud is going to do when he wakes up is give him the verbal run-around while pretending that nothing is wrong. Sephiroth is probably going to be amused rather than concerned that his apprentice felt the need to down half a cabinet’s worth of alcohol, which means that Angeal is going to have approximately zero leverage to get the issue addressed.

By this time tomorrow, everything but Angeal’s own mental state is going to go right back to normal and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, except attempt to keep a closer eye on Cloud.

He glances down at the now half-asleep preteen in his arms and feels his eyes burn. “Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew how to help you.”


	4. [Art] Angeal's Evolution, Teenage SOLDIERs, and Cloud is Adorable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The growing dad-ness of Angeal from his teens to his twenties, Genesis and Angeal as SOLDIER Seconds in Wutai, and Cloud being adorable whether he likes it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend these as illustrations, so I thought I'd just post them all in one chapter and call it good.

**The evolution of Angeal**

* * *

**Genesis and Angeal as SOLDIER Seconds in Wutai**

“Genesis please, just let them take the picture so we can go.”

“No, no, listen, they came all the way to Wutai to get propaganda, we might as well make it _good_ propaganda, right? So hear me out, I stand on one of your hands, you flex, I summon Ifrit—“

“GENESIS.”

[ ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/93563e77232b91d5ba8b890ab9de80c1/3c0e539f8cd35866-8d/s540x810/2b4644123b0f5824162e3e1547b799bffc845ce8.jpg)

[ ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/c61e339e65bf1e13936f0c892855c932/ceac68516deca0f3-c3/s540x810/d2b18d198fd8891f99af44c9bd3d9031f4e60fe8.jpg)

* * *

**Cloud in Genesis's coat for a reason of your choosing**

[ ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/426f2096ecd95bd93306ce3a265240f5/5ec10bb1a28d15ef-5c/s540x810/6647c9e201eefa975659b88d1dbab06e33ea7682.jpg)


	5. Loose Lips Sink Ships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Angeal struggles with the weight of taking human life, Cloud steps in and offers his help. If he'd known what he'd accidentally let slip, he might have thought better of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have known better than to promise the Aerith chapter when I knew that a) it was going to be very long and b) I am Notoriously Easy to Distract 🙄

Angeal clasps his hands together and stares to the side, fighting to keep his breath steady. Every time he looks at his fingers, crimson starts to bleed from the creases in his skin and spread across his hands. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. But still, his arms tremble and his stomach churns wildly.

“Stop,” he whispers to himself. _“Stop it,_ you’re better than this.”

Dying screams ring in his ears. He can feel the vibrations of his blade cutting through muscle and bone, despite the fact that he polished and put away the broadsword hours ago. He’s not even in his uniform anymore.

A choked gasp, not quite a sob, tears from his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. His fingers tighten until pain throbs up into his forearms.

“Stop, stop, _stop!”_

“Hey,” a voice whispers.

Angeal startles badly, eyes flying open. Small hands catch his fingers as they jerk apart, a sturdy grip keeping him from toppling backward off his cot. He finds Cloud standing in front of him, blue-green eyes solemn and knowing. His tiny, calloused hands feel hot against Angeal’s fingers.

[ ](https://64.media.tumblr.com/f00bd34a2bf9532cb158041a76233544/f34f10b7e6bf436a-cd/s540x810/b40040747512de0505a6102c09e6075c03de9d0b.jpg)

“It’s okay,” the seven-year-old says, still in a whisper. “Just keep breathing, Hewley.”

“C-Cloud,” Angeal stutters out, disoriented. How did he get into the tent? “What—”

“Don’t worry about it. Just _breathe,_ okay?”

Reflexively, he draws in a deeper breath. The angry throb at the back of his throat eases a little. His head starts to clear. When he glances down at their joined hands, his skin remains pale with not a trace of red to be seen.

Cloud is still staring at him evenly when he looks up. “...what are you doing?” Angeal asks, bewildered. Cloud should be—well, _sleeping_ , first off, but also well out of hearing range in Sephiroth’s tent. How had Angeal caught his attention at all?

The boy quirks an eyebrow. “You needed my help. What, did you expect me to let you sit here all alone and work yourself into a meltdown?”

For a long, long moment, Angeal is speechless. “Cloud…” he finally manages, “you’re _seven._ I’m—”

“—supposed to be the one calming _me_ down?” Cloud interjects with a roll of his eyes. “You may not like it, Hewley, but one of us has been killing for quite a bit longer than the other. I know how to help, so I’m _going_ to help.”

Cloud might as well have punched him in the stomach for the way his blunt statement drives the air from Angeal’s lungs. _“Shit,”_ he breathes, chest throbbing suddenly. Cloud flinches a little, realizing his error. He starts to loosen his grip, pulling away, but Angeal quickly shifts to grab his elbows. All thoughts of his own guilt and distress vanish from his mind.

“Cloud,” he says, barely above a whisper, tilting his head to try and catch the boy’s eye when he turns his face to the side. His mind does the terrible math for him; longer than Angeal, so five at the very _latest,_ though he has a horrible suspicion that Cloud was referencing a much longer time period than two years. How soon is a lab-grown child capable of killing? “Cloud, you’ve...since you were…?”

The little seven-year-old sighs in frustration, still hiding beneath his wild blond bangs. “One day I’ll learn to keep my big mouth shut,” he mutters to himself. When he finally tilts his head up to meet Angeal’s eyes, he just looks tired. “Look, don’t think about it too much,” he says. “There’s nothing either of us can do to change it, so it’s not worth talking about.”

Angeal stares. “Not worth—” he starts, then chokes off. “It’s—Cloud, it _is_ worth talking about, you can’t just...you should still be able to-to _talk_ to someone about it!”

Cloud rolls his eyes upward. “How did this become about me?” he asks the tent roof rhetorically. “We were talking about you.” With a deeply put-upon sigh, he adds, “I guess that’s one way to stop you from panicking, Mama Bear.”

Angeal almost, _almost_ bristles at the unwelcome nickname. Unfortunately for Cloud, he knows exactly what the boy is trying to do because Genesis tries the same thing _all the time._ His lips press into a flat line. “Nice try,” he says, “but I’m not that easy to distract. Cloud, no one just... _gets over_ something like that. I certainly won’t, and I’m _seventeen._ I didn’t take a human life until I was _fifteen.”_

Cloud looks very unimpressed by his argument. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking. I—no, why am I saying this? Hewley, it’s none of your business. Let go of me.” He shakes his arms a little bit for emphasis.

Reluctantly, Angeal lets his hands slip from Cloud’s elbows. He tries to think of some way to force the issue, some authority he might have to make sure the boy can’t simply pretend there’s nothing to address, but he comes up blank.

Cloud nods, the tensed line of his shoulders relaxing when Angeal stays silent. “Thank you.” He turns away to leave, pausing at the tent’s flap. 

“Sleep will help,” he says softly, peering at Angeal from the corner of his eye. “And if it gets bad again, do something physical that’s repetitive and difficult but not harmful. Pushups, or—” for some reason, he smiles a little “—squats. Focus on what your body feels until you calm back down.”

He goes to leave the tent entirely and Angeal calls out one last question. “And what do you do, Cloud?”

The boy stops but doesn’t look back. A pregnant silence hangs between them for a long moment. Finally, he glances down, his short blond ponytail bobbing with the motion. In a voice that’s nearly lost to the quiet sounds of night, he says, “I fight.” Then he steps out and lets the tent flap fall closed behind him.

_I fight._

Angeal lets his head fall into his hands. _I fight,_ he hears, thinking of little blue-green cat’s eyes and soft, blood-spattered cheeks. _I fight._ He thinks of stubby hands wrapped around the hilts of knives too big for them, and blond hair stained red, and a possessive hand gripping the junction between a little boy’s shoulder and neck. _I fight._ He thinks of Cloud, pushing Genesis out of the way of a sniper’s shot and taking the bullet himself with gritted teeth and the barest sound of discomfort even as he’s thrown to the ground.

_I fight._

_Oh, Angeal,_ he thinks to himself, _where is your honor now?_


	6. A Whetstone and an Oil Rag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To Sephiroth, looking after Cloud is like weapon maintenance. Sharpening is easy—the boy takes to battle like a bird to the sky—but polishing, especially of the gifts he would prefer to keep hidden forever, is another matter entirely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GET READY FOR SOME STRESS-WRITING BABEY ITS GONNA HURT
> 
> Ahh, I almost forgot! Sphinx_of_Black_Quartz prompted this chapter, so thank you darling for feeding my voracious writing habit!

Cloud knows what he is to Sephiroth: a possession, an object, something between a weapon and a companion, like Masamune. He is a thing to be tempered and controlled, but also a thing to be cherished and lovingly maintained. Most of the time this works to his advantage. He’s perfectly happy to be honed like a blade and made all the deadlier for their final confrontation. If Sephiroth wants to be the architect of his own destruction, then Cloud is hardly going to complain. But other times…

Well.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the couch reading through a textbook when Sephiroth approaches and calls his name. He stiffens immediately, glancing up through his wild bangs with a wary expression. “What?” he asks, folding the book closed but keeping one finger on his place. If he’s lucky, it will be something quick and then the man will leave him alone.

Unfortunately, what Sephiroth says is, “show me your wings.”

_ Shit. _ Cloud shoves his immediate reaction into the corner of his mind and stamps it out, hoping that the man didn’t notice. He feigns disinterest, carefully not meeting the cat-slit green eyes trained on him. “Why? I’m busy.”

“This will take but a moment. I simply want to make sure you are properly preening them, given how reluctant you always are to allow me to assist you.” The tiniest knowing smirk plays around the corner of Sephiroth’s lips as he speaks.

_ SHIT. _

“‘Course I preen them,” Cloud says, opening the textbook back up and pretending to start reading again. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Amusement radiates across their conjoined minds, rolling over his consciousness like warm honey, sweet and clinging. “Why indeed,” Sephiroth says. “Of course, I have no reason to doubt you, my Cloud, but it would soothe me to see your good work for myself.”

_ Fuck, fuck, FUCK. _

There’s no way he doesn’t know, but Cloud tries to lie anyways.  _ Anything _ to avoid bringing his wings out _. _ “They’re fine, I took care of it a few weeks ago. Go bother someone else, I’m busy.” He hunches over his textbook, burying the lower half of his face in the too-large collar of his shirt. He reads through a paragraph in the mental equivalent of a shout, just to keep his thoughts from betraying him.

More amusement. “A ‘few’ weeks ago being how many?” This time, Sephiroth reaches in and plucks the information right from Cloud’s mind, neat as you please. “Ah, I see. A few being nearly  _ thirty.” _

Cloud glares at the textbook and scowls into his collar, not bothering to defend himself. Maybe if he ignores the problem it will go away. Sephiroth rounds the couch to loom behind him, bending closer until Cloud can feel the silvery strands of his hair brush against his ear.

“Cloud. Wings out.”

It’s decidedly not a request. With an angry huff that’s more shaky than he’d like to admit, Cloud shuts his eyes and pulls on the bright  _ essence _ lingering in the space between his shoulder blades, manifesting his wings sideways through the oversized armholes of his SOLDIER top before letting them snap straight out behind him. Spitefully, he hopes they hit Sephiroth’s stupid face.

“Good boy,” the man murmurs absently, immediately taking hold of one wing and stretching it out to full span. He has to back several steps away to do so, given how stupidly oversized the things are. With a disapproving click of his tongue, he says, “look at your feathers. Broken, dull, ingrown—” he yanks one of the latter out with no warning, so swift and precise that the pain barely registers. “Why must you be so stubborn about something so beautiful?”

_ Because I don't fucking want them, _ Cloud thinks, rage and anxiety making his stomach flip like a pancake. He doesn't bother to suppress the thought or hide it from the blanketing darkness. If Sephiroth is so determined to invade his mind, then he’s welcome to the truth, and the truth is that Cloud  _ hates all of this. _

The hands on his wings are unbearably gentle. He  _ hates it, _ the feeling of fingers carefully carding through his feathers. It’s like letting someone play with his hair, but far more intense. The wings are an extension of his very being, which is why he ignores them as often as he can and why it feels so... _ much, _ to let them be handled. 

Preening always soothes him, Cloud’s other feelings at the time notwithstanding. How could it not? It is, effectively,  _ touching his soul _ . That kind of power over him is something he might dare to entrust to Tifa, or his Ma, or maybe Genesis and Angeal if he wasn’t so deeply disgusted ( _ ashamed _ ) by the fact that he even has the wings in the first place.

He might trust  _ them, _ but not Sephiroth. Never Sephiroth.

Cloud’s body is rigid with the conflicting feelings of  _ rage _ and  _ peace. _ At some point his jaw locks and he starts breathing through his teeth, the sound somewhere between a growl and a wheeze. The textbook in his hands tears under the crushing force of his grip.

“So stubborn,” Sephiroth scolds, digging one thumb into the neglected muscles at the base of Cloud’s wings. “So angry, over simple care.”

“‘S cuz...I don’t... _ want _ your ‘care,’” Cloud grits out, staring straight ahead. Air scrapes like sandpaper down his throat as it starts to close under the strain of his conflict. Tension tremors rattle through his torso, growing in intensity by the second. “‘n I  _ definitely _ don’t want you to ‘care’ for  _ these. _ ” Caustic loathing saturates his voice like bile. It feels like he’s about thirty seconds away from throwing up as Sephiroth folds his wing down against his back and moves on to the other.

Cloud growls angrily at the contact, vision blurring. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you  _ I hate you _ —”

“Shh...I know.” The hands leave his wing for a moment to wrest the textbook from his death-grip and guide him to lie across the couch on his stomach. He folds like a wet newspaper, far too at war with himself to unlock a single muscle. He shivers and strains for breath, cold and hot at the same time, heart pounding in his ears like a wardrum. His skin prickles, raw sensation flowing in waves out from the base of his wings.

He doesn’t  _ want _ a reminder of his inhumanity. He doesn’t  _ want _ to feel comforted by Sephiroth’s gentle, possessive touches. He doesn’t  _ want _ to feel his hatred ebb, even for a moment.  _ He doesn’t want to want this. _

He wants to be angry and he wants to fight and he wants to use the pain of Masamune’s keen edge to drive every warm and gentle feeling from his head because this is  _ wrong, _ this is _ unwelcome, this is not safe to feel—! _

“My Beautiful Tempest,” Sephiroth says, and Cloud is too far gone in his own head to tell if he said it out loud or through the warm, adoring darkness that tries to steal his burning hate away from him even as he fights to stoke it hotter. “If only you could see yourself as I do.”

His wing is drawn up. A hand runs across its length. “You are  _ radiant,” _ the Demon whispers. “The gravity of you is compelling. You are a burning sun, golden and glowing, and these are your perfect reflection.” One long primary feather is gently, pointedly, tugged. “Pale gold, shining iridescent when you take proper care of them. You are a work of art, my Cloud. I love Masamune dearly, but  _ you _ are by far the most glorious weapon I have ever laid eyes on.”

Panic flares, then crests, then smothers him. He trembles like a newborn colt, fingers digging into the couch hard enough to tear the reinforced fabric apart. “I hate you,” he gasps, deeply ashamed to find himself sobbing into the cushion beneath his head. “I hate you, I hate you I hate you  _ I hate you _ —”

“Shh...I know,” Sephiroth croons, returning to his task of tending to Cloud’s wing. Unspoken, unacknowledged between them, is this: 

At best, Cloud’s words are only half true.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Come join me on Tumblr for illustrations and updates](https://aimeelouart.tumblr.com/)   
> 


End file.
